


Reflections

by spectreshepard



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Experimental Style, Freeform, Gen, almost-not-quite-poetry?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 18:05:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8456464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectreshepard/pseuds/spectreshepard
Summary: there's a price to pay to be a hero; nobody ever asks what it is.





	

let me show you the face of a hero

 

sun-kissed and bitter, the sharp curl of a snarl as command falls from cracked lips. his scars move in tandem with his words, malice-taken but glory spoken. he breathes iron, rust and decay from the inside out on the open, a careless knife clasped in a closed fist. 

 

_ this is not a hero _ , you say to me.

 

of course not. not yet. but there is honor, buried somewhere underneath the corpses of Torfan. there is an unforgivably human heart, ringing a dull funeral march in its cage. there is a voice behind the eyes that speak more than his words do. 

 

it’s not a matter of if, but when. 

 

\-----

 

let me show you the face of a hero.

 

laughter lines and grace, the wicked turn of a bashful grin as familiar names falls from familiar lips. his scars are new and angry, and they pale in the presence of that deadly hum, the sharp, cracked lines of his cybernetics. the tech he wears with malicious pride. 

 

_ this is a hero _ , you say to me.

 

of course he is. he carries honor on a blazing emblem, out of sight but always in mind. he speaks with a voice that can’t be tamed, louder than his lionheart. he is not without bruises - every war has its cost - but he has room for peace, peace that no longer tastes like ash in his mouth when he speaks of it.

 

it was a matter of when, but now it’s ‘why’ 

 

\-----

 

let me show you the face of a hero.

 

you can see the angry hum of red, of synthetic life sitting under his skin; muddied, charred and ashen cold. his eyes are closed in a mockery of a final rest, skin pulled too tight over metal that threatens to claw through. 

 

_ this isn’t supposed to happen to heroes _ , you say to me.

 

you’re afraid to look at him any more. a vision of humanity, a spark of hope in a long night, a smoking ember amongst the ruin. which is he now? you ask. perhaps you already know the answer.

  
this is a hero, and this is a hero laid to rest.


End file.
